


Every Drop

by evenmyneck (stopmopingstarthoping)



Series: Hope's FE3H Smut Fics [6]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dom Mercedes von Martritz, Dom/sub, F/M, Hair-pulling, Human Furniture, Humiliation, Masturbation, Nudity, Power Play, Slurs, Verbal Humiliation, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24786715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stopmopingstarthoping/pseuds/evenmyneck
Summary: Sylvain can have what he wants, after Mercie is satisfied with him.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Series: Hope's FE3H Smut Fics [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571464
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	Every Drop

"Mercedes, _please_." His teeth are clenched, and a single drop beads up and hits the carpet underneath him with the smallest sound. Sylvain can't see it, of course, because bending his neck down to look would break position.

"Furniture doesn't talk, Sylvain." She sweeps neatly around him, skirt swishing, and lays her book on his back for emphasis. It’s not heavy, but the smooth leathery surface feels tacky against his back. Is he sweating? How long has he been here? Mercedes has been placidly reading while he knelt here on all fours, but every time his thoughts have drifted off, she’s made some sort of shockingly filthy comment that's kept him almost as hard as her deft hands working his cock.

Which she’d staunchly refused to do, until she was “satisfied” with his “service.” 

“You did sign up for this, you know.” 

He knows, and he knows the reward is worth it.

The soft sound of cloth hitting the carpet is followed by a trickle of liquid pouring into a glass. When her weight settles onto his back again it’s skin on skin, and he shivers. Deceptively delicate, firm fingers wind their way into his hair and yank. He doesn’t let her turn his head, even though he _knows_ the gorgeous view that’s waiting for him. 

“How dare you? Are you _enjoying_ this?”

He’s not supposed to answer. Furniture doesn’t talk, right?

“What kind of _filthy, immoral, depraved_ …” With each word she grinds down against his back and pulls his hair a little more. She’s soaking wet, he notes with a certain amount of satisfaction. She sets something on the curve of his ass. It’s smooth and cold. Round.

“Don’t spill that, my beloved whore of a table.” Her voice is so sweet, but the lightest tinge of a threat makes a feeling of delicious, tight apprehension spread through his chest.

She leans against the wall behind them both and pulls one foot up to rest on his back. Her elbow pokes into his shoulder as she reclines, and he flexes muscle against it almost automatically. He tries not to think.

The shiver that courses through his body at the wet, slick sounds above him and Mercie’s soft little moan is entirely involuntary, but it teases a wicked, breathy little laugh from her throat.

“Oh dear, that almost spilled. What a terrible chaise you make as well.”

She resumes pleasuring herself there on top of him, and Sylvain swallows hard. He’s quivering, and not from exertion. He could probably stay here for hours, if it wasn’t for his cock pulsing and throbbing at every delicious noise from above him. 

She sinks her nails into his back and that’s what it takes for the smallest move of his hips to send her wineglass crashing to the floor. 

She makes a disappointed sound and gets up. Without speaking, she snatches him by the hair again and drags him over to the spilled glass. He’s awkward and stiff, and scrambles off-balance to the place she points at. Sweet Goddess, he wants to look up at her tits. She seems to know it, because he feels her foot on the back of his neck.

“We mustn’t be wasteful, Sylvain.” Her voice carries that sweet, low menace he loves, and she shoves his face toward the crimson puddling on the hardwood. He feels his face flush with the shame of it even as his hips push his throbbing cock against the rough carpet. 

It’s base and animal-like, the way he slurps and laps at the wine on the floor, the woodgrain under his tongue. She walks away from him.

"Every drop." 

Every drop takes _forever_ , and he ruts shamelessly against the unpleasantly scratchy surface of her carpet, like he's showing her he's just an animal, after all, lapping wine off her floor because she told him to. Because she wants it.

She's left him, though, and he hears her bed creak. He knows where she went and he knows what he's earned. When Sylvain finally stands up, he doesn't bother to wipe the earthy, fruity liquid dripping from his cheek. 

He grins down at her, laid out like an angel on her bed. Her close-lipped, smug smile melts into a gasp as he prowls up her body and skates a palm over her thigh. 

He tastes merlot and Mercie's sharp, sweet flavor mingled together as pale curls tickle at his nose. 

"Every drop," he murmurs in a low rasp as his tongue traces over her folds. 

Her fingers twist into his hair again in answer.


End file.
